


Death Wish

by Miss_Rosula



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe, Blood, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Language, Gen, Gore, Horror, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, POV First Person, POV Original Character, Past Character Death, Present Tense, Rape/Non-con Elements, References to Depression, References to Drugs, Suicidal Thoughts, Suspense, Thriller, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-03-27 09:08:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13877697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Rosula/pseuds/Miss_Rosula
Summary: I'd once loved my body as much as any girl can. Now it's my prison. I loathe it, well and truly; how it's designed to hurt; how it's designed to fear; how it's designed to survive, to betray me, to sate him.Written from the original character's POV. Alternate Universe fic. No Bronzeshipping.





	1. Introduction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Thanks for showing interest in this fic! Saying "Happy Reading" seems wrong so, uhh… unhappy reading? Yeah, let's go with that. This chapter is fairly short as it's an introductory chapter. Just a heads up, I write using UK English and grammar.
> 
> Warning: This fic is M-rated in almost every way something can be M-rated, though some mature aspects will be more prominent than others. If you are easily triggered, I do not recommend reading this. It contains physical and mental abuse, sexual references, drug use, goriness and references self harm and who knows what else will appear in this thing; I might be forgetting something.

Light floods my vision, immersing me in its warmth, and I reach out blindly, smiling.

Now it's dark and cold and wet.

I'm choking and spluttering, liquid launching from my lungs to slap hard tile, its smudged surface marred with jagged cracks. Gulping for air I wish was water, I crash on a filthy floor, convulsing.

I'd once loved my body as much as any girl can. Now it's my prison. I loathe it, well and truly; how it's designed to hurt; how it's designed to fear; how it's designed to survive, to betray me, to sate him.

I somehow sob between gasps, cold water lapping against my bare skin. Then a grated chuckle slithers through the atmosphere like a cruel, arctic chill; I freeze instantly, so still that the water settles. His leather boots slap through liquid, throwing droplets across my pastel skin, seeping into scars both old and new.

"Well, that was quite amusing." His voice is deep, grated, almost inhuman, coming from somewhere behind me. "Wouldn't you agree, my little pet?"

My breaths are barely level when a large hand clasps my bony wrist, the pale flesh blighted by chains only recently removed, and I'm yanked to my feet. My knees nearly buckle. My stomach is heavy for the first time in months, liquid still sloshing within it, threatening to spew forth. His laugh echoes in my eardrums, thick with manic pleasure as I'm pulled against him, my gaunt back against his chest.

His clothes are dripping like melted ice, yet his skin is like fire against my quivering flesh. Some tiny, disgusting part of me savours it, that scarce sensation of warmth in this bitter, barren prison. The rest of me is terrified, tasting bile in my throat. That terror only heightens as he grinds against me, hard and hungry, stirred by my suffering. He always is. I don't need the blindfold ripped off to know it.

I know a grin has split his lips as they graze my ear. "Tell me you enjoyed today's little game," he murmurs, his tongue flicking out to wet my earlobe, to taste my fear. "Tell me how you enjoyed the way your body thrashed and fought against me, its thirst for air merely quenched by the week-old water of a barely standing tub." He chuckles in my ear. "How eventually, it slackened against steel, relinquishing to its master… like the obedient marionette that you are."

His fingers trace sickening patterns across my shoulders; he's savouring the way they stagger with each sob that surges in my lungs.

"You didn't really think that was the end, did you? That your death would be so swift… so painless… so utterly dignifying?" The irony of his words have him chuckling. "Oh no, my dear. Your demise will be none of those things, I assure you… No no no  _no_." His words are sickeningly soft as his fingers encase my chin, vile and warm, his thumb tracing my cheek. "I plan on savouring your final moments, your last breath in this world with me today."

I sense him scrutinising my pallid face, eyeing me like a lion does its prey. "With each tear you shed, I'll taste your terror… your agony… your loneliness… the way I shattered that ardent spirit of yours." I wilt, helpless as his tongue traverses my cheek. "And my my my, will I enjoy gazing upon those eyes as what little life remains within them is slowly, delectably drained from their depths." His fingers brush against my scalp, coiling around short strands of strawberry blonde. "At my hands, of course."

A pitiful cry pries my lips apart as he yanks the rag from around my skull, revealing a grimy, old bathroom shrouded in shadows. Everything is familiar. Except one thing.

Fear swallows a sob, jamming it in my throat, as my sight adapts to the murky shadows that dominate the sullied space. Directly ahead, on a splintered, grungy counter, death stares me straight in the face.

And silent tears stream down my cheeks.


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and most of the ones that follow it will take place prior to the intro. As a result, the OC's style of story-telling isn't quite so hopeless and soul-shattering at this stage. That's completely intentional, as is the lack of a chapter name- I'd rather you guys go into each chapter fairly blind! I'm evil, I know. ;D

Today's the anniversary. It's been a year since Toby died, just two weeks shy of his second birthday. It started out like any old day, with my parents at each other's throats.

"For fucks sake, Lilly," Dad had barked, his steel-capped boots tapping on tile. "Why's everything always  _my_  bloody fault?"

"Don't give me that shit, Marcus!" Mum had snapped back, her hands buried in soapy water. "When have I  _ever_  blamed you?"

"What? You think I've got all goddamn day?!"

"Why don't you fucking leave me, then?!"

Through it all, I'd wolfed down my Fruit Loops like nobody's business, eager to ditch the drama and dash out the door for work. When the argument had reached its peak, Dad had slapped a bright yellow safety hat over his shiny head with an exasperated 'fuck this', then lugged a loudly protesting Toby into his arms. He'd soon stormed out the front door, ignoring the way the toddler bleated in his hold.

With flushed, chubby cheeks, Tobes had reached for the spotless floor, his favourite Happy Meal toy having slipped through his fingers. Eventually, my brother had cooled his jets enough to nod off in his car seat, and Dad had forgotten all about his usual detour to our town's only daycare.

My baby brother's final hours had been hell, almost literally. He'd spent them baking in the back seat of Dad's hoary van, the smudged floor layered with empty Redbull cans. The van itself had been in a potholed parking lot, bowing before an enormous meat factory. Those awful thoughts will never stop hurting.

Initially, I tried to blame no one and nothing. That worked for all of two seconds, till I chose to blame that unbelievably stupid fight. It must've weighed down on Dad's mind, stealing all of his headspace—plus Tobes' was a quiet sleeper.

Of course, Mum blamed Dad. And two months later, I'd found him cold and pallid in the back of his van, the same spot he'd found Toby. An empty bottle of antidepressants and another of alcohol had laid in his lap, his eyes wide and empty, and bile dry on his lips.

My family, or what's left of it, has never been the same.

"Those minions are adorable, aren't they?"

My attention leaves the Happy Meal toy between my pale fingers, meeting the wrinkled eyes of my colleague, Margot. She's beaming at me, her elbows propped atop the table as she holds half a sandwich near her lips. Ham and cheese, if she hasn't spiced things up today.

"My kids can't get enough of those yellow fellas, I tell ya. Toys, shirts, posters, bedspreads, tooth brushes, the whole shebang! Kate and Reese are lovin' them!" She clears her throat, glancing at my one-eyed minion, clad in a silly, bright green hula skirt. "And the teens love em too, apparently."

I turned twenty-one back in February, but I don't bother correcting her. And I definitely don't point out that the toy was once Toby's—that  _that's_  the only reason I have it. While sympathy has become the norm these last twelve months, I know I'll bawl if shown any today.

"Yeah, they're alright."

And the award for best conversational skills goes to. . .  _drumroooooll_. . . anyone but me. Sorry, that was kinda anticlimactic.

"Anyway," I continue, finding my feet, "I'm due back in a minute." As I push in my chair, the wooden legs groan against the lunchroom floorboards, if you can really  _call_  this tiny space a lunchroom. I glance at the toy, absently rolling it between my thumb and forefinger. "But I should probably pop this lil' guy back in my bag first."

It's all I have left of Tobes.

After sweeping away the creases on my pale blue tech coat, I make haste for the exit, my steel-capped, leather shoes thumping on the floorboards. Inside, I cringe at how raucously loud my steps are. Then I hesitate, my hand gripping the doorframe as my manners catch up with the rest of me. Jeez, my mind's such a mess nowadays; it's a wonder I remember to breathe.

"I, uhh, hope you enjoy the rest of your break, Margie."

My smile's forced, but hopefully convincing enough. These days, I consider myself something of an actress. A little trial and error was involved in order to reach this point, but now fake smiles are my absolute specialty; that and masking my mental state, something I probably learnt from Mum.

So soon enough, I'm back to work as a Pharmacy Technician, packing pills in plastic bottles and deciphering hasty handwriting on prescriptions—among other things, of course. It's a part-time gig, offering industry experience and fortunately, some extra money.

Summer vacation winds up at the end of August, only a month away, and when it ends I'll be starting my third year at Rivermoore College. It's a respectable uni, modest in size, and takes about an hour to reach by car or an agonising hour and a half on a moped. Yep, I'm that person that put-puts along looking like she's slowly dying inside, but the thing's cheap to run. It's also green and tiny, so I dubbed it Kermit The Froped.

On a semi-related topic, I live in a tiny town by the name of Rosefield—population: barely big enough for a few rundown stores, a church that doubles as a schoolhouse, and a rather swanky liquor store. Honestly, that last one's probably the life of the town, hence why it's the swankiest. Drinking's the favoured past time of the adults, after all. I'm the exception, not that I really feel like an adult yet. Pretty sure I won't till I'm graduated and living on my own, hopefully someplace exciting (read: not here).

Rosefield's boring as anything, despite living up to its name if you look hard enough. I've walked from Jade River on one side of town to Swan Lake Cemetery on the other side in only fifteen minutes. Basically, any place exciting is at least an hour's drive away. Or an hour and a half by moped.

 _It'll all be worth it,_  is what I try to tell myself,  _when you finally become a kick ass pharmacist, ditching endless paddocks and meat factories for soaring skyscrapers and high-tech hospitals._

Fortunately, it's almost home time. Friday afternoons are always dead, given half the town drive an hour away to Qulver City, their evening spent delighting in spiffy restaurants, football games and movie screenings; the other half stay at home, crowded around a TV till the clock strikes nine for bedtime. Even during summer with the sun still up, Rosefield feels like a ghost town on Friday and Saturday evenings. At least I don't endure the borderline creepy silence for long. Walking home from work only takes a few minutes, not worth using the moped for.

The jingle of a bell jolts me off of auto-pilot, throwing a daydream to the back of my mind. I spare a glance over a half wall, through empty aisles, at the entrance across the store. I'm unsurprised by the patient that's just walked on in. I literally just prepped his prescription and popped it in a nearby tray for Margot, the store clerk. The thing's already been approved by Rhonda, today's on-duty pharmacist, and it's all filed in the system.

Ugh. Is it sad that I wasn't surprised he's on antidepressants? Strong ones, too. And heaps of them, but according to the doctor's notes, the guy's stocking up to head outta town for a while.

Gosh, now I just sound horrible. Sure, he's probably the town recluse for a reason, but I've never been a fan of the status quo—and the status quo in this tight-knit town regarding the mysterious Marik Ishtar is that the guy's a total weirdo.

With his dark skin and light hair, he turns heads wherever he goes; that's kind of to be expected in a town with a primarily pale population. Why he's here, I honestly have no clue. Seems like the type I'd see someplace exciting, like the Big Apple or Cali. Or just about anywhere but here. I mean, doesn't he get lonely? He talks to no one and no one talks to him, plus he lives alone. It's seriously sad. The 'I feel for ya, dude' kind of sad, not the 'you're plain old pathetic' kind.

Anyway, the clock's just struck six. Margie's serving Marik, and I'm out the door that very minute. Rhonda knows today's the anniversary. I'm sure that's why she insisted I leave right on the dot tonight, not sticking around for the end of day clean-up. Gotta love that woman. This might sound bad, but sometimes I sorta wish  _she_  was my mum.

Over my shoulders, my smoke grey backpack clings to my torso, the shoulder straps so strained they're practically pinching my flesh, even through the tech coat. I'm just outside the pharmacy, glaring at a text on my iPhone screen. A few screen taps later and I shove the speaker to my ear.

As I mutter some rather unsavoury words, the dial tone blares in my ear. Unsurprisingly, a shrill beep soon screams through the speaker. Mum's useless with her phone.

"Are you for real?" I quietly growl, my body tensing lividly. "It's the anniversary! The freaking anniversary!" I pretty much roar that last line into the phone. "We're meant to be visiting their graves tonight and now you wanna play the 'I can't do it, get me vodka' card! So much for flicking over a new leaf, huh?

"Well, y'know what? I  _refuse_  to keep playing a part in your stupid,  _stupid_  habits! If you wanna drown your sorrows at the bottom of a bottle, then you can damn well get it yourself!" My voice cracks, unshed tears welling in my eyes as I wrap up my rant. "Y'know, I can't keep doing this forever… Sooner or later I'm gonna just- just up and leave." A grimace twists my visage. "And I'm really starting to think it's gonna be  _sooner_!"

My face is warped by ire as I tap the red circle at the bottom of the screen. That's never as satisfying as slamming down the handset of a landline phone. Damn technology.

I've barely ended the voice message when an unexpected bout of unease shoots shivers all through me, raising light hairs on my neck. Quick, yet concise steps bounce off the pavement behind me. My eyes snap over my shoulder, just as that Marik guy looks away. Oh great. How long's he been standing there?

My attention returns to my phone, the screen dimming after ten seconds of sitting idly. Out of habit, I tap it back to full brightness. I guess if anyone in this town had to eavesdrop on my problems, he's probably the best person to have done so. It's not like Mr Town Recluse will tell anyone.

Ugh… but of course I choose the one time Main Street isn't empty to blab about my shoddy home life. How typical.

The shrill, two second beep of the sensor to a nearby store's entrance steals my focus. It's the beeper for the liquor store, three shops along from the pharmacy. All that separates them is a teeny tiny grocery store and an even smaller boutique owned by Agnes Beckett, a lovely elderly woman who sews and sells nothing but old people clothes.

I notice Marik's gone, but his black, beaten up sedan is still parked right outside the block of shops. Is he buying…? No…  _No_ , he can't have Zoloft with  _alcohol_! That'd just spell disaster!

I'd know.

Just like that, Dad's lifeless face flashes through my mind. I don't think I'll ever forget it.

From where I stand, I glimpse platinum blond hair inside the store. He's reaching for a bottle. And thanks to Mum, I know the store's layout so damn well that I'm  _sure_  he's grabbing absinthe. There's pretty much nothing stronger than that stuff.

A grimace, ridden with worry, creeps across my countenance as I rush to the entrance, reaching it in around ten seconds. I'm not exactly counting.

I don't go inside. That's not the plan. Instead, my eyes flicker out over the town centre, if you can even call it that. The place is pretty sad. There are the shops on this side of the street, a group of four in a fairly beaten-up building; I swear, the thing hasn't been touched up since the day it was built, when Rosefield was relatively new and somehow even smaller.

Across a street full of potholes, weeds prying through cracks in the rugged stone, is a rather rough looking gas station. Its walls are lined with corrugated iron, the once vibrant red now faded to rusted brown, made complete by silver scratches where paint has peeled away altogether.

The church is near the lake, an eight-minute walk down the road to my right. Old houses, almost small enough to be considered shacks, are scattered across acres of fields, down long, gravelly driveways and hidden by the hordes of trees that line every dead-end street of this place.

I'm yanked from my daydreaming.

Those same deliberate steps, a slight swiftness to their pace, echo on the shabby pavement as he passes me by. My throat closes off. Anxiety eats away at my resolve. He's at his car before I finally find my voice. "E-Excuse me?" He tenses, his hand mere inches from the door handle. "Marik… right?"

I still haven't moved a step.

"What?"

Now I'm the one tensing. Or maybe I already was. In any case, he's looking right at me. That same uneasy feeling is back, the one I felt when I heard him behind me. The only difference is that this time his eyes are burning right into mine. They're lavender. I've never noticed that before. I've never been close enough to. The emotion that writhes within them, however, is something I  _am_ familiar with. Painfully so.

"S-Sorry for bothering you." Nice start, you stuttering twat. "I… I know I'm off duty, but I…" My eyes fall from his as I instead stare at the black plastic bag held firmly in his right hand, a few gold rings adorning his long fingers. "I just wanna make sure you know not to have that", I point to the bag, "with your meds."

"Yes, I'm well aware of that fact." He sounds annoyed, and impatient. Definitely impatient.

The guy's probably staring me down like I'm stupid to even ask that. Well, that's how his tone makes me feel anyway.

Perhaps against my better judgment, I force myself to re-meet his gaze. Any pain is now nearly gone. Instead, his eyes are brimming with cold irritation, just like the rest of his face. "Well," I clear my throat, toying with the tech coat that ends at my thighs, "if you need someone to talk to—"

"I'm fine," Marik cuts through my words, staring down the door handle.

Clearly, he wants me to leave.

And clearly, he wants this.

Ugh. I've almost exhausted my options, at least as far as addressing a stranger goes. I know it's not my place to press this much further. Or even at all. I just… this is something I care about a lot. It resonates with me, more than most things do. I know how it feels to lose a loved one. I know how it feels to  _be_  the one who's losing, who  _wants_  to lose. And I know that all I've wanted this past year, all I want even now, is for someone to just  _care_.

"I've seen that look. The one in your eyes." My voice is soft, shaky; any louder and I might just start sobbing. "It's the same look my Dad wore the day he died."

Marik is silent. His face, still craned toward the car door, spells out nothing of his thoughts. It's empty, stoic, void of emotion. Just like Dad's had been.

"I promised myself," I whisper, sorrow swimming in my eyes as they find my leather shoed feet far too interesting. "I promised that if I ever saw that look again, I'd do everything I could to—"

"Don't you have a grave to get to?" His voice bares a wintry iciness that leaves me so stiff I could probably give a statue a run for its money.

And how does he even  _know_ today's the anniversary? He didn't live here a year ago!

"Leave me be, girl," he continues, just as coldly. "I don't want your pity."

Okay.  _That_  rattles me. "I-I'm sorry?" I shriek, appalled by his sheer insensitivity. I'm beginning to see why no one talks to him. "Jeez, I'm just concerned for your safety is all!"

His hand no longer reaches for the door handle. Instead, it curls at his side, clenched so tightly the damn thing trembles. "It isn't  _my_  safety that should concern you." He shows his teeth in a snarl, his eyes now boring into me. For a second, I think I catch fear in their depths. Or maybe I'm just seeing things. It's been a helluva a long day, after all. "If you know what's best for you, you'll start walking home."

My stomach churns, not knowing what the heck his words even mean. Is he threatening me or something? Is he saying I should fix my own problems before I start trying to fix his? Or is he just plain old making no flippin' sense?

Whatever the case, I've quickly decided I'm not all that keen on his attitude. Especially not on the anniversary. If ever there was a day where my patience would be shot, that day is today!

"Well," I start to snap, grinding my teeth as my fists furl at my sides, "I'm sorry that I fucking cared!"

I'm about ready to spin on my heel and march home, until a change in the atmosphere freezes me to the battered concrete beneath my feet, curiosity holding me back. Something about his demeanour has shifted. His ire, once so thick in the air it had been all but choking, has now evaporated. I don't know what emotion replaces it. All I know is that, whatever it is, it sure as hell ain't pleasant.

A low chuckle reverberates in his throat. His hair, impossibly so, stands on end before my eyes. His gaze is dead and indifferent as it sears into mine, two lavender pools empty of all emotion. And across his forehead, barely hidden behind his blond bangs, is an ominous eye, glowing gold as it stares back at me.

I'm still glued to the pavement, my trembling uncontrollable, as though a cruel arctic chill has swept over my pale skin. Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong.

From his belt, Marik withdraws some sort of golden sceptre, its bat like wings spread wide from its round core. That same ominous eye fills my entire vision, but this time it's at the centre of the artefact, not above his blond brows.

"You have spirit," I hear him voice, a grated, hollow edge to every syllable. "It will be my absolute pleasure to  _crush_  it."


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How goes it, errybody? I'm back with another update of DW. Woop woop! Sorry about the delay. Don't you hate when real life throws you for a loop? Yeah, same here.
> 
> So both Marik and Yami Marik are going to appear in this fic, but the OC is gonna refer to both of them as Marik. As this is written in the OC's first-person perspective and in present tense, there will be no usage of Marik and Yami Marik, Marik and Malik, Hikari and Yami or anything like that. At this stage, I don't think it's necessary, but if I ever change my mind I may have the OC come up with another name for Tall, Dark and Creepy to set him apart from normal Marik. For now, though, we'll see how using Marik alone works out.
> 
> Alrighty then. I hope you... uhh... "enjoy" this chapter of Death Wish! It's one helluva doozy!

**Chapter Two**

My vision's a shade lighter. The first tell that I'm awake.

Every morning, I'm dragged from my dreams by the brazen ring of a bell. My alarm tone. I'm a heavy sleeper, see? It's the only thing that wakes me up. And hearing that sound first thing in the morning is something that never changes, even on weekends.

All I hear is silence.

All I smell is mustiness.

All I feel is a biting air.

My finger twitches, an attempt at shifting my whole arm; it feels heavy.

I crane my neck.

Well, I try to.

When my skull screams in protest, I barely move an inch. A wince curls my brows as I scrunch my eyes tighter, oxygen hissing through my clenched teeth.

I still.

The pain subsides, but my temples continue to throb.

Jeez, did I have another late-night cramming sesh for uni?

Wait.

University's out at the moment. That can't be it—

Something splats on my cheek.

This time, it's my eyes that twitch. That horrible headache roars back to life; a squeezing sort of pain that swarms through my skull. I barely hear my own groan, soft and slow as it eases through my lips.

I freeze.

A second splat just joined the first. It's warm and wet, trickling down my cheek to meet my jawline.

I'm definitely awake.

My cheek itches at the touch of whatever's dripping on it.

I'm more conscious now, a lot less heavy.

Again, I try to move.

This time I succeed.

Whatever I'm lying on, it doesn't feel like my bed; it's coarse and cold as I drag my hand across it, and there's no weight, no warmth of a blanket on me. I slap the liquid from my face, noticing the stuff's colder now, the air around me having sucked any warmth from it. Finding the strength to lift a quivering hand, I hover it over my face and, as I rub my fingers together, I find that the liquid feels sticky and thick too, with a bit of grip once I've spread it across my skin.

My eyes twitch again. This time, I manage to pry them apart.

Red.

It's smeared across my pale palm, riddled through the rifts that form my fingerprints.

I stare at it.

My brows crease.

Why would my ceiling be dripping red?

Something splats on the back of my hand.

And through my fingers, two beady eyes come into focus. Round, black, empty eyes.

That's when it clicks.

A scream zaps the atmosphere like forks of lightning; I barely recognise the scream as mine.

My back hits a wall. I realise I've spent the last three seconds crawling backwards, driven by desperation, my shell-shocked mind on autopilot.

My eyes are wide, almost flying from their sockets.

My shoulders shake with each ragged breath that swells in my lungs.

I'm staring.

I'm processing.

I'm gasping for air.

Those two beady eyes, I realise, belong to some dead creature. A long piece of wood, the pointy pole from a farm fence, has been driven through the underside of its skull. The other end of the pole is firmly planted into a thick crack on the worn, stone floor, a few smaller cracks marring its dark grey surface.

A layer of white fat covers the creature's cranium and bits of pink flesh spot its surface. Scarlet, sinewy muscles extend from a large, off-black animal nose, and crimson drips sporadically from its nostrils, its mouth, behind its eyes—all landing with a sickening splat in the spot I'd just laid.

It's a decapitated cow.

Freshly slaughtered.

Freshly skinned.

Someone's been here recently.

Two hollow, lavender pools flash through my mind.

Reality sinks in.

A strangled sob shoots up my throat, my hand slapping over my lips like that'll suppress it. Instead, I've smudged blood across my mouth, my chin, even my nose.

My stomach churns. I stifle a retch, but only just.

My left hand, still clean, becomes quite the opposite as I rub the blood away, so hard the skin of my face stings.

More sobs shake my frame.

My eyes dash around me.

There's a door across the room. It's solid metal, save for a small, square gap a little higher than eye level. Three thick bars, burnt reddish brown by clusters of rust, span the length of the gap to block me from freedom.

It's deafeningly quiet. The only sound I hear is the faint crackling of a lone torch on the wall to my right, dancing away the darkness that claws at every corner, every edge of the room. I leap to my feet, my steps booming off the walls as I dash to the door.

One tug at the handle confirms my fears. The thing's jammed tight, locked from the outside.

Frantic, I yank it again.

And again!

And agai—

Steps echo outside.

I stop.

I listen.

I quiver.

A single set of steps. Soft. Steady. Getting louder.

He heard me scream.

My muscles go taut.

Adrenaline thunders through my veins.

For the second time that minute, my sights shoot around the space.

It must be around twenty feet wide, same length longways. The room's sparse. I see no obvious means of escape and there's no damn time to check if the thick crack in the floor - the one the pole's jammed into – would lead anywhere if I got on all fours and dug down.

I can't run.

There has to be something I can use to defend myself!

A plastic bucket, its white surface dulled by dirt, sits in one corner. An old newspaper is tossed beside it, stained yellow by the harsh hands of time. Across from the door, a pair of solid chains are bound to the wall, thick cuffs at the end of each one. They gleam beneath the torchlight, strikingly shiny- perhaps even new.

They're hanging in wait for a victim.

In wait for  _me_.

Vile images flash through my head like a horror film, painting petrifying pictures of what that sick freak might do to me.

My gaze grinds to a halt on the impaled cow head.

I bound across the room, reaching it in three swift strides.

The lock clicks behind me. It echoes unsettlingly, three times in quick succession, off the worn walls around me. There must be three locks to flick open.

My quaking fingers curl around the wooden post that serves as a stake, and I grip it hard. Resolve swirls through my veins, numbing the splinters that sting my hands, as I rip the post from the crack in the stone.

The haunting cry of metal fills the room. It's the door.

I spin around so fast the cow head goes flying, slamming against the wall by the door with a sickening crunch. It collides with the floor soon after, one beady eye flopping from its socket to slop on the gritty ground; it's punctured, liquid oozing from the milky orb to pool on the floor.

My eyes spurt up.

Two lavender orbs are already on me, laughter lining every inch of them.

Maintaining a firm, two-handed grip on the post, I hold it out like a lance, ready to stab. Its end is jagged, dangerous, hopefully fatal.

I stare, unblinking, as air hisses through my teeth, in and out, in and out, with each hasty breath I take. "S-S-Stay away from me, you  _sick_   _fucker_!" I ready my fighting stance to stress that I sure as shit mean business, my grip on the post so strong my knuckles have long since run white, and the worn wood shakes visibly.

For a moment, all he does is stare at me. His eyes are now dead, void of any laughter, and his face is blank. I wonder if he's gaging me, assessing the situation and the best course of action. I wonder if I should lunge at him this very second, before he comes to a conclusion I won't like.

Instead, I'm rooted to the Goddamn ground.

A few seconds later, the freak simply laughs. A loud, hysterical laugh, so boisterous he throws his artichoke head back on his shoulders and roars at the rocky ceiling.

My chest tightens, bile bubbling in my throat. I swallow it down. My two-handed grip on the pole never ceases.

Only when his creepy laughs subside one painfully long moment later do I decide I should've stabbed the sick bastard right then and there. I missed my first chance, quite possibly my only chance.

I pray I won't regret it.

I already know I will.

A wild grin snakes across his lips, revealing blindingly white teeth. They don't suit him. Not at all.

"My my my…" I'm reminded of his putrid voice—deep and gravelly, almost inhuman. "You're certainly a feisty one." His eyes flick from mine to the post for only a second. "And imaginative too. . .  _Perfect_."

My skin crawls. What the hell does he mean by  _that_?

Marik moves.

I jerk the post higher, at shoulder height.

He doesn't stop. His solid, leather boots bounce off the floor as he takes three steps toward the cow head.

The sharp side of the post is always angled at him. I'm sure the skin of my fingers has shaped to every bump and ridge of the weather-worn wood.

My lungs seize as I catch a glimmer of torchlight on glistening gold. It's that golden sceptre, tucked under his belt. I recall the ominous eye engraved upon its base. And I recall how it was the last thing I saw in that parking lot, its glow all but blinding, before everything went dark.

Marik's eyes steal mine in their rigid stare, awaiting any sudden movements as he scoops the cow head off the ground, gripping it in two large, tanned hands, gold rings adorning his long fingers.

The cow's eye dangles from its socket, bound to its brain by stringy flesh. Liquid still leaves the punctured orb to splat sporadically upon the rugged, stone floor. Each splat echoes like the hands of a Grandfather clock – the dusty one in my living room, which I've always hated – as though counting every excruciating second he spends staring me down through hollow eyes.

I count at least ten seconds of silence – ten seconds of shaking, of hearing my every heavy breath, of running from a reality I refuse to accept – before a smirk slowly shapes his lips. He shifts the weight of the cow head in his hands, left to right and back again, and the cow eye rocks with every movement.

"Tell me, my dear." I tense as he raises the severed head, his veiny hand like a sick pedestal. "Did you enjoy my welcome gift?"

I don't answer. The disgust on my face is answer enough. It's the answer he wants too. I can tell by the way his smirk snakes wider. The sick freak's relishing my revulsion, my terror, this whole Goddamn shitfest.

"And your accommodation?" Marik cocks his head, still fucking smirking. "I trust you find it… adequate?" He juts his chin and stares at me through half-lidded eyes, down the straight bridge of his nose. He's awaiting an answer I refuse to give. He almost looks lazy, disinterested, with that cold, empty stare.

I know he's anything but.

And no damn way will I play along with his sick fucking game.

Marik grunts with what sounds like displeasure and dumps the cow head to one corner, near the exit. He doesn't break eye contact. Neither do I. Our reasons for doing so are drastically different.

His attitude shifts, like Rosefield's bipolar climate, when a sneer tears away any annoyance his grunt had implied. "Not one for small talk, are we?"

When again, I don't answer, the freak strolls two steps forward.

I totter twice as many back, my grip firm on the pole.

"Shall I take that as a yes?" The creep's sneer stretches. "Hm. I suppose it  _would_  be wise to rest that pretty, little larynx of yours." He takes another two steps.

This time, I take thrice as many back. And nearly trip on the last, my heel hitting the wall.

Something cold and unquestionably metal rattles behind me, and my stomach flips, bile once again burning my throat.

It's those chains.

Oh God, it's those friggin' chains!

I know it is!

My mind explodes with vile theories of what the hell he plans to do with them, to do with  _me_. A sob escapes me. It's sudden. It's pathetic. It came from friggin' nowhere.

Just like the torturous clatter of wood meeting stone.

Two tanned hands have yanked the pole from my grasp. They jam my wrists flat against the stone wall and I yap as the chain-links burrow into my back, hard against my spine. His body's but a breath away from my own—and I have no frickin' wiggle room to change that!

I've dropped my guard.

I've lost the post.

I've screwed up.

As I stare, unblinkingly, at the triumph that dances through the depths of his gaze, sobs surge in my throat like an ever-rising tide. I barely contain them.

Futility claws savagely at my mind.

I know it.

_He_ knows it.

That's the absolute worst part.

"Shh shh shhhh," Marik lulls in my ear, the foul heat of his breath shooting shivers down my neck. "Didn't I just tell you to preserve that little voice of yours?" His own voice is eerily soft, a haunting whisper that sickens and scares me in equal measure. "After all, you need to save it… save it, my dear… save it for your  _screams_." His pitch deepens with every syllable, brimming with some twisted, depraved kind of lust. " _Yes_ ," he groans, "Save it for those oh so  _delicious_  screams!"

My stomach nearly curdles.

I'm frozen in place—and his hands around my wrists, or his body pressed to mine, aren't just to blame for that.

I know he's twisted.

I know he's remorseless.

I know I'll need to  _break_  my way out of this screwed-up hell hole.

What I don't know is  _how_.

I'm launched back to reality when he drives me harder into the wall, so hard I can feel him – the most unsavoury part of him imaginable – erect against my stomach. I realise, with brutal clarity, one thing he's  _sure_  to want from me. One thing no one should ever take from another by force.

I know he wants to.

I know he can.

I've gotta get outta this shitfest long before he does.

My pulse throbs in my temples, my ears; hell, it shakes my whole damn body!

And oh God, my trembling's downright violent, uncontrollable. I just can't stop—

Marik buries his face in my neck, the gravity defying spikes of his flaxen hair itching my cheek as he… as he inhales deeply.

What…

What the  _fuck_?!

A breathy groan escapes his mouth. A set of gasps, sharp and ragged and utterly petrified, escape  _mine_ \- I… I swear he just got harder! It's like… like the sick freak's getting… getting  _off_  from this shit!

This time, I fail to choke back a humiliating sob.

He only groans again.

"My little pet," he whispers far too softly, "I want screams so severe they will echo in my mind, resonate in my dreams, erupt like an everlasting symphony off these stone walls." His tongue twists through his lips to slither a sickening course down my cheek, the cold air biting at the saliva that's left behind. "I want to hear those delectable screams as I strip you of your sanity, as I drain the hope from your eyes, as I fuck myself to the thought of you dying here, as I defile that delicate body of yours in  _every single way_  you can imagine." He leans back, exposing a sneer. "And even in ways you  _can't_."

No.

No no no…

Please, no. This can't be happening.

Not to me.

Please, not to me.

He's crazy.

He's psychotic.

He's fucking insane!

People like that don't exist. Not in quiet, crappy Rosefield!

They don't kidnap poor girls.

They don't lock them away from the world.

They don't torture them, rape them, murder them.

They don't.

They just  _don't_!

Marik leans forward again, making me wince as the weight of his body presses down on my wrists. His grip is intense, immovable, and my pale hands are somehow even paler. I can't even tell if the stone wall is cold against my knuckles or the other way around.

"Oh, those people  _do_ exist in Rosefield, my dear." I tense, sure I hadn't voiced that aloud. "Why do you think  _you're_  here, hmm?"

What the—

How'd he know I just thought—

That menacing eye, the one on his sceptre, flicks through my mind for only a moment. It's the last thing I saw before I wound up here. I know that's no coincidence. I know that thing is sure as hell not normal!

A chuckle shakes his shoulders. I feel it reverberate his ribcage, perhaps even mine. And his grin— oh God, his  _grin_! It's downright feral, as he eyes me like I'm some frantic, feeble creature cornered by a ravenous predator.

I am.

I am and he's loving every microsecond of it!

Now  _that_  flips a switch.

My lips draw back in a snarl – not a damn scream – and suddenly, I feel like  _I'm_  the psychotic one. I lash my limbs, my hips, anything I can; desperate for an opening, for any chance of escape.

All I hear with each futile lurch of my body are his pleasured moans in my ear, and all I feel is something sickeningly hard against my lower abdomen.

He's stronger.

_Way_  stronger.

He's sick, twisted, perverted, a  _monster_.

I already know that even  _that_  doesn't cover it.

I doubt any word can.

Eventually, my body slackens and shakes between him and the wall. I'm whimpering, panting, as my lips quiver of their own accord.

The very definition of humiliating.

My chest presses hard to his, and his to mine, with our every heavy breath. Mine are fuelled by the choking weight of reality; his, with a perverse sense of power- and a rush of animalistic lust.

Then, I hear that grating voice once more. "I must say… terror suits you quite perfectly." Again, his tongue wets my cheek. "Quite…  _delectably_."

Exhaustion has overwhelmed me. I can feel it, those fear-fuelled bursts of adrenaline draining from my body along with my hope. I try, desperately, to cling onto the latter. I'll need it to escape this fucking nightmare!

"Prepare yourself, my dear." Marik drags my wrists further up the wall, until my arms are ramrod straight and right above my head. "Prepare yourself for the slowest, most excruciating death to  _ever_ exist in this world!" He loops his large, left hand around both of my wrists. "Your perception of time will be twisted  _oh so slowly_  by my hands." His right-hand skims down the wall, yet his empty stare is still on me. "You won't die over hours, days, not even weeks. Oh no, your death will be  _slower still_ …"

Another sob shoots tremors through my chest as he grinds against me, hard and hungry, grinning madly. If he hadn't already given me every bloody reason to question his sanity, that grin would've done it in buckets.

The clatter of metal has tears clawing at my eyes.

No.

Shit. Please,  _no_!

The steady scrapes of metal on stone sound like a death sentence.

"You'll waste away here over months. Perhaps even years." He snorts. "That is, if you  _last_  that long… and if you're  _amusing_  enough." He barks out a laugh. "As for your thirst for company, for the kindness and comfort and warmth of another… oh, your thirst for such things will be left in the unsteady fingers of a broken boy." His lips brush my ear. "And in  _my_  hands, of course."

My eyes bulge. I up my struggles, but my body's weak, unresponsive, already struggling to follow his words. My limbs are slack and flimsy, like wilted petals on a flower in fall.

"First, I'll take your spirit. I'll claim your courage. I'll strip you of any and all resolve that you possess."

The click of a cuff echoes endlessly off stone. My right wrist is too cold to even feel it against my skin.

"Then, I'll take your mind. I'll steal your sanity. I'll rob you of everything that makes you  _you_."

Another click. This time, it's my left wrist.

"And lastly…"

The chain-links clatter as his hands leave my wrists, and the weight of the cuffs drag my hands to my sides.

"I'll take your  _body_."

Hairs rise all over my skin as his fingers grip my waist, and his hands slide far too slowly up my sides. My milky flesh is hidden by a white tee and a pale blue tech coat, both dirtied by the dusty floor and dried blood—but in this moment, no amount of clothing is enough to make me feel shielded, unsullied,  _clean_.

"I'll push it to – no,  _beyond_  its limits."

As his hands reach my shoulders, I see the way his eyes hone in on my chest, as though relishing the way it rises and falls: sharply, sporadically, victimised by my terror.

All at his hands.

"I'll sap every sliver of fight it has left."

His fingers ease down my arms at an agonising pace.

"I'll destroy its every instinct."

My stomach sours. He's laughing again, low and grunty, thick veins bulging beneath his temple.

"I will  _crush_  your body's will to survive."

In an instant, a pair of lavender pools bore through me as his lips linger but a breath from my own.

"And you'll be absolutely  _begging_ for death…"

His words birth a cavernous hole in my gut, a sensation I've only felt twice before. The day I found Dad, his unseeing eyes drilling deep into mine. And the day I was told I'd never again see Toby alive.

I never saw  _his_  body. I couldn't bring myself to.

With Dad, I'd had no choice.

"Now then," Marik murmurs, his breath nauseatingly hot across my ashen face, "I have something I'd like to show you."

Only when he takes three steps back – still nowhere near far enough! – do I learn that I have jello for legs. The handcuffs slam against the stone floor, my knees following suit, as the chains shatter the sinister silence of wherever the hell I am.

I'm dizzy.

Cotton balls fill my mind, fuzz my senses.

I barely catch the clatter of wood as Marik kicks the wooden stake across the room – well out of reach – and strides through the exit, out of sight. His steps tap off every wall, each one quieter than the last.

They never fade completely.

No, they're still there.

They're still taunting me.

A reminder of what awaits if I even attempt an escape.

But if given the chance, I know I'll seize it. I  _have_  to.

I don't know how long I've been here.

I don't know if I'm missing yet.

I can't rely on others to save me.

No, I have to save  _myself_.

How big is this place?

My eyes rush around the room.

I'm reminded that I'm dizzy.

I slump against the wall, groaning softly. The stones are uneven in places, harsh against my back. That's the absolute least of my concerns.

God, this can't be happening.

It just  _can't_  be.

Somehow, I'm remembering those cliché scenes from the movies; the ones where they think they're dreaming, where they pinch themselves and lo and behold, it's frickin' real.

Now I know exactly how those poor bastards feel.

I don't bother pinching myself.

I don't even know if I can.

Just the thought of moving right now has me sagging harder against the wall- if that's even possible.

I lay for a minute, motionless.

I'm staring into space.

I suck air in through my nose, out through my lips.

Inhale for two seconds and exhale for four. And make sure your stomach rises- it gives your lungs more room to breathe. A regular at the pharmacy, good ol' Dorothy Beaker, had once said that when buying her usual- a box of denture cleaning tablets and the "winning" lottery ticket.

It's funny, the little things you remember—

Steps echo in the distance.

His steps.

I try my gosh dang hardest to ignore them.

I need to concentrate on my breathing.

But fuck, oh fuck, the certainty of my situation is really sinking in now—

No!

_In for two, out for four._

I need to focus.

_In for two, out for four._

I need to maintain a level-head.

_In for two, out for four._

I need to cling onto my sanity, to not let him  _win_.

Things aren't spinning so much now. My breathing's  _maybe_ steadier. Rapid breathing certainly explains the dizzy spell. I'd blame that for my tingling fingers too, had that freak not just been cutting off their blood supply.

My eyes sink to the cuffs clasped firmly around my wrists, flat on the floor, linked to chains I see are bolted to the wall behind me.

Futility fills me. I try so damn hard to keep it at bay. I need to concentra—

My body tightens.

I swear I just heard a  _tap_  close by.

Boots against stone?

My lips curl and quiver. A desperate attempt at biting back a round of ugly crying.

Oh God! Is he  _already_  coming back?!

I still as much as I can.

I try to focus, my eyes fixed to the opened door dead ahead.

I only just maintain my steady breathing.

His steps are still distant, barely even audible.

Okay. I'm on edge. Shitty circumstances like this cause hypervigilance, increased anxiety and eventually, exhaustion. Clearly, I'm experiencing all friggin' three!

The source of the sound is hopefully harmless, or maybe I'm just downright hearing things. I don't know which is worse.

My focus shifts back to the cuffs.

So, I have about five feet of chains to work with. First thing on the agenda is to change that  _no_  chains to work with.

My eyes whizz around the room in search of salvation. Three sweeps and I realise, with a pitiful sob, I have nothing to work with.

A bucket.

A newspaper.

A cow head.

A bloodied post.

A torch on the wall.

And another, lone handcuff that hangs from the wall to my left. Just the one cuff, not a pair. I hadn't noticed it before—and right now, I don't have time to question it.

Damn it!

I can't reach  _any_  of these things while I'm in these stupid cuffs. Not even if I embrace my inner primate by lying on the ground and using my feet for hands!

There might be something in my backpack; only problem is it's nowhere in sight. Clearly, he's nabbed it.

The rattle of chains echo as my hands dive into the shallow pockets of my black pants. They're empty, unless tiny bits of balled up thread count.

Splendid.

Frickin' splendid.

My sights shift to my cuffs for the millionth time. At least, it certainly  _feels_ that way.

Then I steal another glance at the door.

I can't hear his steps.

He's either too far away or he's stopped somewhere- hopefully not nearby.

My eyebrows crease as I examine the handcuffs: solid, shiny and most definitely new. I have a sneaking suspicion they're a recent addition to this otherwise dated room.

My eyes snap up as I twist my body, the skin of my stomach folding; that only intensifies the nausea that grips my gut each time I move.

I try to focus on the chains.

They're thick, fixed to a metal plate that's been bolted into the stone wall.

They seem sturdy and securely fixed.

They probably  _are_.

Let's test that.

Sluggish as a sloth, I lug myself to my feet, the chains rattling, cuffs colliding with every movement I make. My legs ache. They're still bordering on limp noodle territory, threatening to cave.

I  _refuse_  to let them.

There's no way I'm letting that Goddamn psychofreak win!

My eyes dart to the door. I know he's left it open just to taunt me, to heighten my hopelessness.

I won't let it.

Instead, I listen.

No steps.

Okay. To test just how well these stupid chains are rooted to that stone, I need to put as much weight as possible onto the bolts that bind them to the wall. I can't do that with my back to said wall. No, I'll probably be able to put more weight on the bolts if I'm facing them.

All right. I need to be as silent as possible, lest Marik hears and returns prematurely.

Carefully, I lift each leg over the chain that's linked to the cuff around my left wrist. The cuffs steal quiet gasps from my throat as they nip my wrists, but around ten seconds later, I'm facing the wall.

I spare a one-eyed glance over my shoulder.

No one in the doorway.

No steps nearby.

My attention returns to the task at hand. The chain-links trail up the bare wall to two metal plates, where thick bolts have been drilled through the plates, straight into the stone. The chains are now crisscrossed just shy of my cuffs, making me cringe each time the hiss of metal on metal tortures my ears- partially because the noise alone is cringe-worthy, partially because  _anything_  seems loud in this deathly silent space.

To my chagrin, there's no silent way to throw all of my weight onto the bolts. At least, not one that  _only_ uses my body weight. The most effective way to do this is with that classic trust exercise that I swear, these days, is more of a joke among friends than anything else—fall backwards, trust that you'll be caught.

The only difference?

I  _don't_  want the cuffs around my wrists to catch me.

No, I wanna fall hard on my ass.

That'll mean I've yanked those bloody bolts right from the wall!

The cuffs hiss as I press my wrists together – well, as  _together_  as I can get them – and I allow the chain-links to sag a few feet.

Okay.

As they always say, it's now or never.

I fall backwards.

Cool air snakes over my skin.

Strands of strawberry blonde fly into my peripheral vision.

The chain-links grind against one another, echoing off every wall.

Then the cuffs bite my wrists, so hard I'm sure a thin layer of blood is now smearing the insides of the stupid shackles.

I'm at a forty-five-degree angle, stopped midair.

The chains have gone taut and the bolts haven't budged.

Steps fill the air.

They're growing louder by the second.

"Damn it!"

Fuelled by desperation, I throw caution to the wind and yank hard against the chains.

They don't budge.

I try again.

They don't budge.

A sob jams in my throat and I try two more times.

They don't budge.

Tears blur my vision.

In a frenzy, I pull and pull and pull again.

The bolts don't bloody budge!

I glance at the door.

Empty.

Another few pulls.

Another glance at the door.

Empty.

I've lost count of how many times I've tugged at the Goddamn bolts on the wall.

Another glance.

Empty.

The violent clanking of chains drown out each growl that erupts from my lips as I tug and tug, again and again.

Another glance.

Empt—

A grey shadow ghosts across the wall beyond the doorway.

My breath stalls.

He strolls into sight, not a sliver of panic strewn across his countenance.

No, he's smirking like the cocky creeper that he is.

And he's holding a black, bulky tote bag in one hand, its contents clanking with each movement he makes.

My stomach squirms. What the hell's inside that thing!?

"Oh, you're about to find out, my little pet."

A gasp grabs my throat as my eyes hiss to that golden sceptre, still tucked under his belt.

"Very perceptive, aren't you?"

I don't answer, but the implication of his words doesn't fall on deaf ears. There's definitely something funky about that creepy sceptre of his—and he knows I suspect as much.

Marik enters the room, his leather boots tapping against stone. Each step he takes is calm, calculated, carefully placed. Perhaps that offers a glimpse of his personality- psychopathic tendencies aside.

The chain-links fixed to my cuffs are still criss-crossed. Knowing that's a sure-fire way to shoot myself in the foot, so to speak, I throw both of my legs over the chain-link that's fixed to the cuff around my left wrist and spin on my heel, my back no longer to him.

Somehow, he doesn't acknowledge my obvious attempt at an escape. Instead, his smirk remains as he halts just beyond the bounds of my chains.

I stumble five steps back, my back slamming against the wall. Pain shoots down my spine. I don't give a crap. No, all I care about is being as far away from the creep as possible.

Deadened eyes are on me as he sets down the bag. Whatever's in it clanks again and keeps the thing standing upright, rather than allowing it to sag against the stone floor.

My eyes narrow on it, theories of its contents plaguing my mind. The worst one my brain conjures up, of frickin' course, is torture equipment—and regret writhes within me as my mind races back to those Game Of Thrones reruns that I just  _had_  to watch last week.

A low, raspy laugh shakes his shoulders. "I assure you, I have no intention of torturing you. Not in the physical sense." His eyes narrow on me, now thick with amusement. "Not  _yet_."

I swallow, loathing the way my lips tremble.

"After all, I made a promise that your spirit would be the first thing to go." He laughs again and crouches beside the bag. "I intend to honour that promise. And there are far more…  _intriguing_  ways to do so than by mere physical torture- ways I plan to make ample use of."

Marik buries a hand in the bag and steadily withdraws something I sure as heck don't expect. It's a jar, its smooth surface the colour of limestone and its base engraved with a group of hieroglyphics that I could never hope to decipher. The lid has been carved into the head of a falcon, a god whose name I can't recall.

No, all I know from the few documentaries that I've seen is that the thing is Egyptian.

And that jars just like it were once used to contain the organs of—

My face slowly falls.

Marik's unfittingly white teeth are revealed as a grin splits his lips, somehow reminding me of some giddy, five-year-old boy scout showing off his badge collection. Only a lot less cute and a lot more terrifying.

"You're somewhat familiar with canopic jars, I see." He strides closer and my foot twitches, only for reality to slap me hard across the face. I'm already against the wall. I can't step back.

"It's customary, is it not?" Marik halts only a foot from me and plucks off the lid. "For a man to introduce the only woman in his life to his family." He shoves the jar in my face, the pungent scent of cinnamon, sawdust and salt filling my lungs, and I glimpse shrivelled twists of pale pink within it.

Oh… Oh my fucking God.

That thing in the jar.

That's… That's what's left of his…

A retch erupts in my throat.

Marik throws back his head and roars with laughter. "Not all that fond of my dear sister, are you?" He pops the lid back on the jar. "Don't you worry, my little pet. It may come as a bit of a surprise, but I wasn't exactly too fond of her myself." He laughs again, like he's a world class comedian or something.

I scream that he's one sick motherfucker.

Or rather, I  _try_  to.

All that leaves my lips is a choking cough, my attempt at stifling another retch.

Or an ever-swelling tide of tears.

The… The hell if I friggin' know anymore—

A sudden snarl rips me back to reality. Before me, Marik's free hand slaps his forehead and grips it tightly, each vein in his wrist throbbing beneath his russet skin. He staggers back, right across the room, until his hand leaves his forehead to clutch the doorway instead.

"Be… Begone, you little  _pest_!" Marik barks.

"Leave… them…  _alone_ …"

Those three words; they were uttered by Marik, but they sounded… normal, untainted,  _afraid_.

"You're… interrupting… my fun!"

"You're…" Marik stumbles forward, the jar stretched before him in one hand as he heads for the bag. Even from here, I can tell that hand is shaking. "You're disrespecting my family!"

"You deem  _that_ disrespectful to our dearly departed family?" A low chuckle leaves his lips, his grip on the jar tightening. "I'll show you  _disrespect_ , little Marik!"

Suddenly, Marik launches the jar at the wall to his left, narrowly missing the only torch in the room. In a cloud of brown spices, the item shatters against rock, shards of limestone clattering to the ground along with a clump of spice-dusted flesh—a preserved, shrunken loop of… of intestines.

That golden sceptre soon follows, bouncing off that very same wall; it rings as it hits the floor, then stills among the shards of shattered limestone.

Marik bellows with laughter as he staggers, though a little less than before, toward that lone cuff on the wall. My brows soar, bewilderment racking my brain, when he drops to his knees and shoves his right hand into the shackle. He clicks it in place, binding himself to the wall right along with me, and he peers my way, his lips curling into a feral smile.

"I'll see you later this evening, my little pet."

And with that, Marik's face softens – his hair settling on his shoulders, that glowing eye on his forehead fading from existence – as he slumps against the stone wall behind him.

Blinking back my shock, I keep a sharp eye on the blond. I'm ninety nine percent sure that every variation of WTF has just crossed my mind in the span of a minute.

One moment he's shoving canopic jars in my face.

The next he's cuffed and collapsed against the damn wall.

I have a few theories as to what could cause such a sudden shift in someone (besides the obvious  _he's fucking insane_ ) but—

The strong scent of cinnamon hits me like a freight train, all but curdling my stomach, and my eyes snap to the remnants of the shattered jar. To my dismay, not a single shard is within arm's – or foot's – reach. Just another thing to taunt me, like the opened door straight ahead.

A groan steals my focus. Again, it sounds relatively normal. Not disturbingly deep. Not dastardly. Not otherworldly.

He's stirring.

And somehow, his presence isn't threatening.

Not like before.

No, it's  _definitely_  not like before!

Marik lugs his chin from his chest like a starving man, weak and trembling. His blond bangs shift, revealing a pair of lavender eyes that look very much alive- not empty voids of crazy like before. I catch his gaze move to the bag, full of what I assume are more jars. Then, his attention turns to the shards of limestone on the floor and… and eventually, it falls on the… remains.

That's when a sob lurches from his lips.

Then another.

And another.

They hiccup in his throat. They wrack his shaking body. They seem to have no end.

"Br-Brother," Marik chokes, slackening against the stone wall. "Sister…"

He's whimpering, lost and lonely, almost like a child… almost like Toby. And I realise that for the first time since this whole thing began, my own lips are quivering from something other than fear.

"Odion... Ishizu... Oh Ra, I'm sorry…" His chin hits his chest, tears streaking his cheeks. "I'm sorry… I'm sorry… I'm so,  _so_ sorry!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… that happened. ^_^U
> 
> Ahem. Yeah. Anyway, I listened to creepy as heck ambience music while writing the first half of this chapter and it was actually super unsettling, so I really hope it helped. If not, well… then all it did was make me realise how much of a giant wuss I am. For the second half of this chapter, I did a full one-eighty and listened to 90's pop music… which I feel was mildly inappropriate of me given what I was writing. XD
> 
> Oh and by the way, if you're wondering if I've mentioned the OC's name in this fic yet… no, I haven't and you're not going crazy. I find it kinda interesting to have her unnamed. For now, anyway.
> 
> Anywho, please do leave a comment to let me know your thoughts so far—and have a great day or night ahead!


End file.
